


Flu Season

by Bead



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Illnesses, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bead/pseuds/Bead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bella was supposed to meet Thorin at the thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flu Season

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I wrote, probably last fall, and has nothing to do with any universes. Just a little shameless hurt/comfort.

Bella knows she’s pathetic when sick, she knows it, and this flu has her throat filled with glass and she’s positively _aching_ so maybe, she thinks, that’s allowed. There was that awful, nearly graying-out moment in the bathroom, and she's still lightheaded and swoony by the time she crawls in the bed, and realizes she left her tea somewhere in her aborted (swoony, lightheaded) search for aspirin and her eyes actually fill with tears. 

And of course the phone rings, and it’s Thorin, and uh oh. The thing. She was supposed to meet him at the thing. 

“‘M sorry, darling, ‘m sick,” Bella rasps, blasting right past hello. She’s too tired for pleasantries. She cuts her aching eyes to her evening dress, hanging on the back of her wardrobe door and sighs. The flu was not the surprise she was aiming for tonight.

"You sound terrible," he rumbles. 

"Uh. Yeah." She sniffs into a tissue as tears fill her eyes again. "Sorry about the thing. The flu. Hit me. Like bricks. I . Just can’t." 

"Not important." And oh yeah, it still sounds important. 

"Really sorry," she says in a very small voice. It’s raspy and hurts and breaks halfway through.

"Don’t be silly," he snaps and hangs up. 

The phone falls from her limp hand and she moans softly, not only feeling miserable and terrible, but feel miserable, terrible and unloved. Stubborn stoic bastard.

The flu probably flees in terror of Thorin Oakenshield’s majestic glares. Burns germs out with the power of his grumpiness. Probably filled with disdain for the weak and sickly. Stupid healthy stupid man. She drifts into a helpless doze. 

Bella wakes, woozy, when the front door opens, and soon Thorin appears at the door to her room, frowning. She manages a scowl. 

"Hung up on me," she growls as fiercely as possible. It’s more of a whispering rasp. She winces because her throat is impossibly even more painful than before. 

"Hush," he says, voice so gentle, and comes to sit beside her on the bed. Bella peers at him, and it dawns on her that his frown is concern and that maybe…. 

"Why aren’t you at the thing?" she whispers. 

"Why would I be anywhere else?" he counters, looking at Bella like she’s utterly mad, but he likes her anyway. He touches her hand, her cheek, then leans forward to press his lips against her forehead. 

"You’re burning up," he murmurs. "Taken your temperature?" 

She waves a limp hand. ”Got rather swimmy in the bathroom, came here. Forgot my tea.” And pathetically, remembering she forgot her tea makes her a little teary again. ”I’m so cold.” She shivers, and that hurts, too. She may or may not whimper. Not going to own up to something that pathetic. The weepies are bad enough.

"You’re burning up," he repeats sternly, and she knows he’s angry at the fever, not her. She nods her head, (bad idea) gritting her teeth against the stupid tears. He rises, takes off his coat and drapes it over Bella, who groans gratefully and pulls it closer. It’s the beautiful cashmere one, and it’s so soft and smells faintly of him and she is never ever giving it back. 

"Mine now," she rasps, snuggling into it.

He smiles down at her as he loosens his bow tie, shucks out of his jacket and takes out his cufflinks to roll up his shirtsleeves. 

"Tux, undressing," Bella mourns, and shivers, miserable and freezing. “God, ‘m a such pathetic special snowflake," she informs him, teary _again_. 

"Ah, but you’re my snowflake," he murmurs affectionately and strokes her cheek with one fond, gentle knuckle. He brushes an escaping tear away. "Nothing to bring down the fever?" 

Bella shakes her head very carefully.

He goes on mysterious errands, off to the kitchen and bathroom, she closes her eyes and dozes a bit, so grateful, so sorry she thought less of him.

The thermometer appears, and it hurts so much for dry air to hit the back of her throat, she winces and struggles, trying not to cough, to hold it under her tongue. 

Thorin frowns the whole time, then looks at the thermometer grimly. “I’m taking you to hospital if it doesn’t go down.” 

Bella agrees by blinking, worn out. He goes away again and she drifts into a weird doze with little blip dreams about robots in love, dancing under the stars, and her old cat curling up on her shoulder and when she wakes, her arm is rising to hold him, and Bombadil’s been gone for years. Bella puts her hands over her face and tries to choke back the tears, and forces herself to take deep breaths. They hurt. A lot. 

Thorin comes with tea with lemon and honey in her favorite cup, and something for her fever, and it is absolutely wonderful but painful to drink. He wipes the tears from her cheeks, now clearly quite worried, so tender and gentle with her Bella is worried she’ll start crying about that, too. 

“Tiny little dreams while I drifted,” she croaks. “One about my cat Bombadil, coming to curl up next to me like he always did when I…” She takes a deep, unsteady breath. “I woke up raising my arm to hold him…” She lifts her arm to show him as her voice cracks, and lord, she feels so weak. 

“Miss him,” she says, her voice hitching, and tries not to sob. Tears are gathering under her chin and she feels like an utter idiot. “Glad to see him, though. Even for a…” she struggles with tears again. 

"Bella," he says softly, with all the love in the world in his voice as he offers her tissues and kisses her cheek. “Sweet Bella.”

"Y’re so nice to me.” she says sleepily. “And, and and, there were dancing robots, too. Blue ones, so happy together, under the stars," she tells him earnestly, because it seems really important, and he huffs out a fond laugh. 

Thorin tucks the coat under Bella’s chin and she just manages to follow him with her bleary eyes as he takes off the last of his finery, rummages in his drawer for his sleep pants, and comes to curl around her, protective and dear and warm. Her eyes are kind of wonky and drifting shut all on their own, but she tries to stay awake because he’s here and so wonderful and also very very pretty.

"Darling man," she whispers, her voice nearly gone. "Y’my robot?"

"Of course I am," he replies, pressing his lips to her temple. He pulls her closer, and she shivers into him, breath hitching, so so grateful. "Sleep, love. I'm here."

**Author's Note:**

> I remembered, answering a comment, how I was inspired for this fic; both my cats died earlier this year and I was sick, and had the dream of a comforting cat curling up with me, and woke raising my arm to cuddle her. So I had to do something nice with that, or just cry all over the room. 
> 
> BTW, the cat I dreamt of was Goldberry, and Goldberry, the river daughter, is the wife of Tom Bombadil from LOTR, and that's where I got the name for Bella's cat. :) 
> 
> I have two new kittens now, 3.5 month old's. Their names are Ghivashel Grayscale (we were gonna name her Gandalf, but she's a girl) and Caslon Openface, which is a version of a favorite font. He is a most ridonkulous cat. Ghiva is sweet and elfin and curious and so smart.


End file.
